The only thing that stuck in people’s minds, and that only because it added fuel to an already deep, abiding, personal hatred, was the story of Julian Marbolt’s treatment of young Archie Orr, and his refusal to inaugurate a vigilance party. The blind man’s name, always one to rouse the roughest side of men’s tongues, was now cursed more bitterly than ever.
And during these days the bunkhouse at Mosquito Bend seethed with revolt. But though this was so, underneath all their most bitter reflections the men were not without a faint hope of seeing the career of these desperadoes cut short; and this hope sprang from the knowledge of the coming of the sheriff to Forks. The faith of Arizona and the older hands in the official capacity for dealing with these people was a frail thing, but the younger set were less sceptical.
And at last Julian Marbolt’s tardy invitation to Fyles was despatched. Tresler had watched and waited for the sending of that letter; he had hoped to be the bearer of it himself. It would have given him the opportunity of making this Fyles’s acquaintance, which was a matter he desired to accomplish as soon as possible, without drawing public attention to the fact. But in this he was disappointed, for Jake sent Nelson. Nor did he know of the little man’s going until he saw him astride of his buckskin “shag-an-appy,” with the letter safely bestowed in his wallet.
This was not the only disappointment he experienced during that fortnight. He saw little or nothing of Diane. To Tresler, at least, their meeting at the ford was something more than a recollection. Every tone of the girl’s voice, every look, every word she had spoken remained with him, as these things will at the dawn of love. Many times he tried to see her, but failed. Then he learned the meaning of their separation. One day Joe brought him a note from Diane, in which she told him how Black Anton had returned to her father and poured into his only too willing ears a wilfully garbled story of their meeting at the ford. She told him of her father’s anger, and how he had forbidden her to leave the house unattended by at least one of his two police—Anton and Jake. This letter made its recipient furious, but it also started a secret correspondence between them, Joe Nelson proving himself perfectly willing to act as go-between. And this correspondence was infinitely pleasant to Tresler. He treasured Diane’s letters with a jealous care, making no attempt to disguise the truth from himself. He knew that he was falling hopelessly in love—had fallen hopelessly in love.
This was the position when the evening of the day came on which the rancher’s invitation to Fyles had been despatched. The supper hash had been devoured by healthy men with healthy appetites. Work was practically over, there was nothing more to be done but feed, water, and bed down the horses. And Joe Nelson had not yet returned from Forks; he was at least five hours overdue.
Arizona, practically recovered from his wound, was carefully soaping his saddle, and generally preparing his accoutrements for return to full work on the morrow. He had grown particularly sour and irritable with being kept so long out of the saddle. His volcanic temper had become even more than usually uncertain.
His convalescence threw him a good deal into Tresler’s company, and a sort of uncertain friendship had sprung up between them. Arizona at first tolerated him, protested scathingly at his failures in the craft, and ended by liking him; while the other cordially appreciated the open, boisterous honesty of the cowpuncher. He was equally ready to do a kindly action, or smite the man hip and thigh who chanced to run foul of him. Tresler often told him that his nationality was a mistake, that instead of being an American he should have been born in Ireland.
Just now the prospect of once more getting to work had put Arizona in high good temper, and he took his comrades’ rough chaff good-naturedly, giving as good as he got, and often a little better.
Jacob Smith had been watching him for some time, and a thoughtful grin had quietly taken possession of his features.
“Soapin’ yer saddle,” he observed at last, as the lean man happened to look up and see the grinning face in the doorway of the bunkhouse. “Guess saddles do git kind o’ slippery when you ain’t slung a leg over one fer a whiles. Say, best soap the knees o’ yer pants too, Arizona. Mebbe y’ll sit tighter.”